


lilith's kind

by Anonymous



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Spectacular Spider-Man (Cartoon)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Break Up, Emotional Manipulation, Insanity, M/M, Mental Instability, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Horror, Psychological Trauma, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-01-15 17:06:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18503326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Flash rushes forward, limp and broken leg forgotten, screams hoarse.Peter drops to his knees, gasping like his breath got sucker punched out of him. And Flash knows it. He’s heard it enough times to dream it.Red drips to the floor in loud splats. Some distant part of Flash was expecting a waterfall or an airbrush of crimson. Not like sticky wet glops that looked black under artificial luminescence.Two bodies drenched in red, fall.





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

_Wild folk and Lilith's kind_

_Lurking, secretly ride the winds_

"Walpurgisnacht"

FAUN

* * *

Flash hates getting the bench. Stupid leg won’t heal fast enough, and now he’s stuck with Puny Parker for the rest of the day. Freaking nerd keeps on jumping at _nothing_.

Totally a sign that he’s not Spider-man. Spidey would’ave totally trounce anyone lookin’ at him funny.

Like Parker.

His brown eyes are really wide and terrified, with heavy bags pulling them down so it looks a really lot larger than normal. The more that Flash looks at Peter, the more that weird irritation _hurthuntslay_ itches under his skin. Whatever. Totally nothing new. Sure, they've been getting better at the whole talking thing since Flash’s birthday party but all of those progress slammed on the brakes hard when out if nowhere papers everywhere started publishin that Puny Peter Parker is Spidey.

Total letdown.

“So uuuh,” Parker starts, wringing his hands together, fingers twitching into almost patterns. Luke pulling strings. “This is so freaking me out, and I’m really sorry about the leg and-”

Parker freezes, white as a sheet. As if he’d seen a ghost.

“What the, how? Wait - I..." He swallows, adam’s apple bobbing, falters towards the hall to the football field. “I’ll be back. Gimme a sec.”

Then he’s off in a - heh - flash. The blond rolled his eyes and took his time limping to where Parker disappeared. The tinier boy easily slips past the throng of students, weaving through them until he’s gone. Except, Flash feels like he’s honed in to where Peter is. Like there is a distant awareness that he’d know where to find where Peter Parker any time he tries. It’s a weird thing. Always have been there ever since they were kids. Smaller kids, anyway.

The football field’s full - the team, cheerleader, and the fucking band’s all there. Peter’s on top of the bleachers, confused and terrified, but mostly disbelieving. He has a hand over his chest, clutching it like some old timey wife waiting for her husband to come back from the war.

“Hey Parker!” Flash snickers when the shorter boy jumps. “Shouldn’t you be carrying my books or something?”

Peter flashes him a sheepish smile, totally fake and just about hiding the terror Flash likes - _liked_ \- seeing on his worst days. On the days where his dad is a lot angrier than the usual, days where the only way he can get rid of his bruises is to mark them on Peter’s skin like a brand. He turns away and tries to shake the thoughts off. Christ, the fuck is wrong with Flash today?

“Sorry.” The apology stirs something angry and hot in Flash’s chest that red colors his vision for a good 3 seconds that he has to take a deep breath through his nose just to calm down. “I thought I saw someone familiar, probably just my imagination, haha!”

Does Peter bleed red or will he crack like some fine china doll hiding secrets upon secrets beneath? When had Peter ever stopped lying? Will he _stop_ even?

Then they’re walking back inside, quiet.

Schoolmates and teachers moves to the side, eyes sliding over the two, invisible barriers pushing them away. Feels like crossing the red sea.

Flash grunts, drags himself forward, each step made his limbs heavier by the second. Parker doesn’t notice that his supposed charge - star of the football team - falls behind. Peter hunches on himself, hugs his arms for comfort, the air feels alive. Electrified. Like lightning waiting to strike.

“Wait, shit Parker-” Flash tries to call out, words stuck in his throat as Peter’s distance increases with each moment. Like a pendulum swinging over their heads.

Peter stops.

A woman blocks the way, small and pretty, has a mole under her left eye. Like Peter Parker. Her dress is just as beautiful, if a little old-fashioned, a white nightgown. No one pays her any mind.

She takes a step forward and pulls Peter into her arms. Tears streaked her pale face, eyes wide open. Under the schools fluorescent lights, her irises looked gold.

Alarm bells screen inside Flash’s head. The word is frozen and gray. The woman presses closes to Peter, whispers to his ear and pulls away with a dreamy smile.

She mouths something. Flash doesn’t understand.

Then the world explodes.

Flash rushes forward, limp and broken leg forgotten, screams hoarse.

Peter drops to his knees, gasping like his breath got sucker punched out of him. And Flash knows it. He’s heard it enough times to dream it.

Red drips to the floor in loud splats. Some distant part of Flash was expecting a waterfall or an airbrush of crimson. Not like sticky wet glops that looked black under artificial luminescence.

The woman _hurthuntkill_ strokes Peter’s hair with her _redredred_ hands, smiles softly and proudly and _motherly_ that Flash’s sick then pulls a knife from Peter’s gut, gleaming silver-red and presses it to her own throat and slashes it open like a second smile and-

Two bodies drenched in red, fall.

Flash catches Peter. Of course he does, but they’re a heap of pain and flesh and agony together. Peter in Flash’s arms like some horrible parody of the Pieta, eyes glassy and bright, growing paler by the second. Blood dribbles out of Peter’s mouth.

Shit. Fuck. Flash’s hands scrabble, trying to find and plug the hole some weird lady made in Parker. More pour out.

There are screams in  the background. Someone calling for 911, hands trying to pull Flash away. But if they pull him away, who’s gonna cover the wound until they get actual help when a bunch of high school idiots screaming like headless chickens keeps on making Peter panic with all the fear and noise?

“Flash! Your _leg_!” Through the din, the blond registers Gwen fucking Stacey and he takes a look down and wondees how the fuck does bone get through medical cement.

Oh.

Bile rises up Flash's throat, but if he throws up all his lunch, Peter’s gonna get infected and he might actually die but Flash hates Peter but he doesn’t want Peter gone because fuck he doesn’t even know _why_ but he has to hold on because Peter’s slipping through and if Peter closes his eyes how will he-

 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

_Let us wander to the fires  
Whispering, reaching for stars_

"Walpurgisnacht"

FAUN

* * *

Thanks to sweet sweet technology, Flash’s out in 2 days. Football’s gonna have to take a backseat for a while, but if Flash follows his doctor’s orders and the therapy or some shit, he’d be back on track to getting out on the field by senior year.

Peter’s not so lucky.

The chair screeches on the sterilized linoleum. Flash plops on the seat and props his crutches on the headboard of the medical cot. It disturbs the overflowing sheets, but the occupant doesn’t stir.

Peter is a pale and tiny thing, veins stark blue and half a dozen tubes plugged on his face and on his arm. The blond can almost feel them himself too, sticky bitter and heavy.

Flash places his right hand over Peter’s own. Doesn’t fit like he thought it would. Peter’s fingers are slender-long, like pianist fingers. The blonde’s hand may be larger and bulkier whatever, but they’re stocky and thick, blistered with the number of times he passed ball and beat mirrors and other things into shardy pulps. Scarred. The only thing Flash and Peter have in common.

He removes his hand and clenches it into a fist. Much better.

There’s a thick wrap of bandages around Peter’s chest, too. A patch over the left side that’s thicker since that's where the gauze and stitches are. Where the knife slid in between his ribs and pierced the tip into the heart. He remembers the gleam of the knife, the woman’s throat sliding open like a zipper, red on white. Peter looked small in his arms then, like cradling a child, like Peter was stuck in time when he still called Flash his ‘bestest friend’ and meant it.

Flash doesn’t remember his leg breaking a second time.

Peter moves but doesn’t wake, brows furrowing and eyes darting around under his lids. Dreaming of red raining on linoleum floors, alone and terrified.

The morning fades to afternoon then the door opens and in comes their friends: Liz red-eyed and puffy, Gwen and Harry looking like neither had a peaceful night of sleep, Randy and his dad were both there - so was that newspaper guy with the Hitler mustache. Asshole’s fake news probably got Peter stabbed because someone’s idiot enough to believe Peter’s Spider-man.

Like that woman with the motherly smile and knife.

“Hey Flash,” Liz greets with a tired smile and pulls a chair next to him. She buries her face on his shoulder and he lets her. Sure, they broke up, but Flash isn’t heartless. Not like he thought he was, anyway.

“Aunt May’s with dad, sorting out the medical insurance and everything. Doctors say he’s gonna be here a while, maybe a month at least.” Flash tries to summon annoyance at Osborn for the whole “giving free help” and shit, but all he could focus on is the sharp spike of disappointment when Liz takes Peter’s hand in hers.

They fit.

Flash is exhausted, despite the 3 days spent sleeping off painkillers. His leg throbs with a dull ache, the skin where the bone clean through itches, but he knows it’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. Everything will be back to normal in no time. The whole Spider-man shit, the woman probably in a morgue somewhere -

“What happened to the lady anyway?” Flash shifted when he felt his arm fell asleep, pins and needles climbing up to his shoulders.

Ice charges the air, Liz is stiff and the veins on her hand pop, Randy’s dad clears his throat while the other man… Jameson, if Flash remembers right, looks on the floor.

“She was… well, she was dead when police got there.”

“Yeah, I get that. That happens when you cut your own throat open.” Flash ignores the slight glare Gwen throws at him. Screw them, he saw it happen from start to end. None of em were there. None of them knows the feeling of Peter’s sticky thick blood staining their fingers or how light and small he is or saw the light fading from his eyes as he bled away to-

“Her body was in an advanced state of decay. Bloated and waterlogged, like she’s been dead for over ten years.”

Oh.

That made no sense, but made total sense at the same time. Dead people rot. Because if she is who Flash thought she might be, then that’s the only explanation why, right?

“Any idea who she is? DNA or some shit?” No one answers him. That’s fine. Flash knows DNA tests take time. Can take days to weeks, depends on how much of the body they can use that hasn't rotted away. Pretty expensive and very likely to be put at the backlog of a thousand requests because this is New York and finding dead bodies off the streets is as common as sand at the beach.

The door opens and Aunt May and Mr. Osborn stand outside. Her eyes land on Jameson, and the man gets to his feet and they all step outside. The door closes.

Three arguing voices start then drifts away, lost to the sound of the heart monitor and oxygen tank. Flash doesn’t pay it any mind.

The silence stretches with the passing hour, minutes ticking endlessly.

“Heard you saved Parker.” Heat prickles the back of Flash’s neck. He tastes coppery salt and avoids Robertson’s gaze. Had Flash saved Peter, he wouldn’t be sleeping 3 days straight. “You did good.”

Flash has nothing to say.

The door opens again and in comes Osborn senior and a doctor. Smug bastard’s wearing concern on his face, but Flash knows the look of someone trying to live his life through someone else enough. Osborn can throw as much money he’d like at anything, but he won’t buy love for sure.

“I’m glad to see Peter’s friends taking good care of him.” Flash’s skin crawls. Spiders under his skin. “You’re a good friend, son.”

Flash turns away, hates seeing the adoration and longing in Harry’s eyes. Euphoric with acknowledgement, devastated with perceived apathy and disappointment. Liz shifts by his side and he catches the concern in her eyes. He shakes his head. Ignore it, she knows.

The doctor clears his throat. “Visiting hours will end in a fifteen minutes. Mrs. Parker is requesting some privacy and we will need Mr. Thompson back to the children’s ward.”

Flash bristles as that. He isn’t a fucking kid. But he’ll be discharged tomorrow. So, it’s not like it fucking matters.

They all step outside, but Osborn lingers. A sharp glare from the doctor isn’t working to get the rick fucker out, but Aunt May swoops out of fucking nowhere like an avenging angel and ushers the smug bastard out with a sweet smile and “I need to be alone with him now, please.” Flash should send her a fruit basket some time. Fuck, he probably should have been sending her thousands of apology gifts for every bruise and scrape he left on Peter because he sure as fuck doesn’t deserve the grateful smile she sends his way.

The door closes.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond;  
And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring.   
Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.

"On Death" Kahlil Gibran

* * *

 

So the Parker kid ain't Spider-Man. Figures. Scrawny nervous thing could hardly hurt a fly, let alone swing around New York in campy spandex. That, and said vigilante in campy spandex is too busy fighting off some of the boss's boys from robbing a bank. He quips like the loud mouthed shit that he is and proceeds to tie up 5 armed men in webs. The usual song and dance it is then.

Flint reforms into sand and rises right behind Spider-Man, fists forming into hammers and smashes forward. Spider-Man dances away, get nimble and quick, bug-eyes wide. Another grunt and sand stands into jets that can drill holes into concrete, but Spider-Man dodges easily.

They go at it for a good five minutes, Spider-Man just barely getting hit, while Flint follows up relentlessly. Feels like the insect knows what Flint us planning before he even thinks it. Annoying as fuck. More than the usual.

Eventually, they end up at an abandoned construction site. The sun cast an orange glow, painted the skies in harsh strokes, like jagged edges of broken glass.

It's just the Sandman and Spider-Man now.

“You should go home,” the vigilante suggests. Flint answers with a sandy fist to the face. “You're a good man, and I know you don't really want this kind of life to live.”

That's new.

“Feel bad a kid got stabbed cuz of you?” Spider-Man tilts his head to the side like a curious kid, the lens of his costumes eerily unblinking. “Yeah, kid almost died because some insane bitch probably thought he was you.”

Time stretches forward and Flint feels like he should do something, but something holds him in place. His limbs are frozen. A strange sensation crawls beneath Flint's skin, and for the first time in months, sweaty gathers and drips down his forehead.

“Have you ever thought..." How the fuck did Spider-Man get this close? Flint should be feeling the vigilante's breath, but he couldn't even see Spider-Man's chest rising and falling. “That every day, every night, Keemia prays that her daddy finally goes home?”

Rage blinds Flint and he roars. He smashes his whole being to Spider-Man, sand flying like shards of broken glass.

What the fuck? What in the flying _fuck?_

Flint feels ice crawling across his lungs, heavy and wet with dread. He swings his fists wild, fear and anger and nonononooheisntsupposedtoknow made his movement erratic and heavy. Like walking through water. And that's a lot worse with his body now. Waves dragged each step and just a bit of Flint away, and the more he went after Spider-Man, the more he hears her name in his voice. Childish and mocking.

“Keemia deserves better.” Somehow, Flint sees the wicked sharp curve of a sweet smile under the mask, teeth to white and eyes gleaming like Spider-Man knows something he shouldn't. And he _does_. “Don't you think?”

“ _DIE!”_

Flint roars and he feels the crunch of bones under his hands. Like wood snapping into a thousand splinters. Feels the sticky warmth of blood. Organs and soft tissue squelching like jelly in his palms. And when he pulls away, there's a smear of _bloodfleshbones_ on the red brick.

Flint throws up.

* * *

 

Max sits quietly in his cell. Stewing.

The last time he saw Peter, it was before the accident. Before he turned into a freak. Before Spider-Man decided he deserves to be in prison for something he doesn't have any control over. Now the vigilante had gone and almost got Peter killed. Another reason to hate the spider.

If he was to be honest, rage overtook Max and he nearly stormed to where Peter lived so that he can finally take his revenge. And Max is glad he didn't.

Just the day after when nearly assaulted the kid, Spider-Man comes swinging around like nothing happened. So here was Max, just letting the night drift away.

Alone.

Moonlight played with the shadows across his cell. The darkness lengthened and thickened, heavy. He feels eyes peering at him from the depths, and Max turns away on his cot, pushes the irrational fear snaking across his chest like a vice.

Usually, the guards would be making their rounds any minute now. But he doesn't hear the heavy footsteps or batons tapping lightly on glass. The only thing present are Max's heavy breaths and the crackle of electricity.

The silence stretches away, and Max turns back to face the other end of the wall, desperate to convince himself of his solitude.

A pair of featureless white eyes stare back at him.

Max snarls, rushes up to send a bolt of electricity towards his intruder, but the eyes disappear back into the shadows. He jumps out of bed, illuminating where the darkness gathers, but there's no one there.

“Max.” He whips around and electricity flies around in as chaotic surge. Not a single guard came running. Max doesn't need to look twice to know who it is. “You don't really belong here... do you?”

“Getting a kid killed not enough?”

Max had long been acquainted with the sensation of sparks in his veins. Heat and energy running a path under and over his skin, mapping out every muscle and tendon like circuitry. The very sensation of the moment as lightning strikes contained within his flesh. Nitrogen and fire a familiar scent, made worse whenever Spider-Man was involved. Spider-Man made him, in a way, and all his being had long forgotten Connor's mistake because he wouldn't be here because of some insect freak.

Except, this time, something felt off. A wrongness that skittered like tiny insects up his back, a cold kind of terror that crept from the tips of his toes and up to his neck. And the longer he looked at Spider-Man, the worst it got.

He should be moving, frantic energy exploding in a chaotic wave of electricity, to try and finally get revenge on the vigilante. But something holds Max in place, every muscle burdened by an invisible weight, trapped.

Spider-Man tilts his head to the side, moonlight reflecting from the lens of his costume, bathing him in an ephemeral veil. There is something almost precocious with the way he swung his legs over the cot. As if a child waiting impatiently for a parent to punish him.

“What do you want?” Max finally groused out, tongue heavy and throat dry.

“Do you miss it?” Max's brain screeched to a halt, his heart stuttering to a pause and beating too hard at the same time. It felt like something is screaming at him to get out, run. But he can't _move_. “Do you miss having to touch the people you love? Enjoying just the smallest thing like... the sun on your skin or the wind on your hair?”

Max snarled, spat and hissed as he thrashed against his invisible bonds. The shadows in his cell began to move and shift and he knew for a fact that it wasn't his imagination. The light from the moon stretched to an angle and Max finally saw what held him in place.

Countless webs wounded around him, the red of Spider-Man's costume reflecting off it and bathed it in crimson. And Max was at the very center of it.

With unnatural smoothness, Spider-Man jumped off his cot. Max feels the burning heat spreading from his skin. Electricity arcs in an explosion of light. Max smells burning flesh, nitrogen and ozone and too sweet burning meat. The _yearsmonthsdays_ minutes stretches agonizingly in eternities. Then gone in a second.

A blackened charred thing stands where Spider-Man used to be. Smoke wafts into bizarre patterns, dancing in the  wind. The blue and red of the vigilante's costume is already burnt beyond repair, the flesh beneath looks like open sores spread all throughout, ashes flaking off into the ground. White sightless eyes stare back.

Max finally _finally_ moves. And screams.

 


End file.
